The little book that gets people to the doctor

Coi Nguyen keeps appointments in a handmade little book, the kind of private system that looks small until you understand what it is holding together.

In Biloxi, on Mississippi's Gulf Coast, Nguyen volunteers as a translator and interpreter for Vietnamese neighbors at doctor visits and legal hearings, making calls and scanning documents from her apartment kitchen when someone needs help getting through a system that is not built around their language. 1

She is 65, semi-retired, and not pretending this is a program with an office, a budget and a receptionist. Sometimes people tip her. Sometimes they take her out to eat. Mostly, she does it because, after two decades on the Coast, people know her as "a friend, a family." 1

The line that stayed with me was not polished. Nguyen told the Sun Herald, "I feel like, if I don't drive her, who will? And if I don't help her, who help?" 1 That is the whole story, really: a neighbor looking at a gap and refusing to step around it.

The Gulf Coast is home to half of Mississippi's 9,000 Vietnamese residents, one of the largest Asian diasporas in the state. Yet local health workers told the Sun Herald there are only a handful of Vietnamese-speaking medical providers in the area, leaving many patients with limited English to rely on relatives, informal helpers or third-party interpreter lines. 1

The downtown Biloxi clinic has Vietnamese-speaking providers, but the broader Coast still leans on informal interpreters and community helpers. 1

Singing River Health System saw more than 700 Vietnamese patients in the past year, and a spokesperson said more than 60% likely needed interpretation or translation services. 1 Hospitals that receive federal funding are required to offer meaningful language access, but patients often prefer an in-person interpreter, especially when the conversation is about medication, cancer screenings or fear. 1

Cynthia Le, a bilingual nurse practitioner at Singing River Health Medical Clinic in downtown Biloxi, told the Sun Herald she uses Vietnamese daily and often receives referrals because patients can speak to her directly. 1 In two decades of practice, she has found that speaking with patients in Vietnamese gives them more control over their own care because they understand why medication and preventive screenings matter. 1

That is the practical side of kindness. It is not a slogan. It is somebody showing up so a person does not skip a colonoscopy because no one can take them and translate.

Nguyen is not alone. Dat Thanh Phung, her grand-nephew, immigrated to Mississippi from Vietnam seven years ago and now fits clients' doctor visits around accounting classes and his young family. He studies symptoms with clients ahead of appointments so he can explain them clearly in English. 1

His reason is plain: he remembers needing 14 trips to the DMV to complete permit paperwork. He has heard clients say they avoid the emergency room because they cannot speak with the workers there, choosing instead to "absorb the pain." 1

The Biloxi office of Boat People SOS is one of the few organized supports for Vietnamese language access in the Gulf Coast area. 1

There is some organizational help. Boat People SOS helps community members schedule appointments, sends interpreters to doctor visits and connects people with Medicare-covered transportation. Nguyen once worked there part-time after moving to Mississippi from Canada, and she later helped lead COVID-19 vaccination outreach for the Vietnamese community through a Mississippi Department of Health task force in 2021. 1

But the story is honest about the limits. Nguyen lives alone. Her daughter Annie is in nursing school and works 90 minutes away. Three years ago, Nguyen lost her son Peter, who had been living in Canada, and she told the Sun Herald that helping people fills the time that grief would otherwise swallow. 1

This is where the good news becomes sturdier than a feel-good headline. Nguyen is not proof that the system is fine. She is proof that one person can keep a fragile bridge open while everyone else decides whether to build a real one.

Her worry is simple: she cannot do this forever. The people she drives, translates for and checks on will still need someone when she is gone. 1

For this morning, though, I am grateful for the little book on her kitchen table. Names, times, addresses. English and Vietnamese. A map of neighbors who made it to care because someone wrote them down and came when she said she would.